


Strings

by noobcake



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Community: dragonage_kink, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2861375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noobcake/pseuds/noobcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is scarred from his time as Danarius' slave, and Hawke is slow on the uptake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strings

I walk into Hawke’s newly acquired mansion in Hightown, a free man on uncertain ground.  
  
We have flirted from time to time, she and I, trading compliments and a few stories over the wine from Danarius’ cellar. Rather, Hawke has flirted, and I have stumbled along as best I can. At first I found myself responding to her overtures out of politeness, then out of curiosity, and finally out of a wish to believe that I could have...something of my own. With her.  
  
She meets me in the foyer not in her armor, but in a house dress with her family’s crest embroidered upon it. Suddenly I am faced not with Hawke, but with a noblewoman on her home ground. I push on, intent on speaking my mind. It’s true when I say I’ve thought of little else but Hawke since we dealt with Hadriana. The explanation I give for my hatred of Hadriana is also true, but not whole.  
  
In the end, it doesn’t matter. I turn to leave, to retreat like a coward.  
  
Hawke’s grip on my arm should feel warm, encouraging. Instead it registers as a threat, triggering my tattoos as I whirl and push my attacker against the wall. Her eyes are wide in the blue glow, and then they narrow just as I master my reaction and regain control. She thinks I’m being frisky, I suppose, and flips around to slam me backward in kind. The back of my head bobbles painfully against stone, and I feel my face register fear before I finally submit.  
  
We are in her richly appointed quarters, now. Nine times out of ten, when you see an elf in the bedroom of a noble, the elf is there to perform a service. That has been my experience. No, up until a few years ago, that was my whole life. I was indeed a bodyguard, but that was not Danarius’ only use for a slave.  
  
Often, if we were not traveling, Danarius would squint at me out of the corner of his eye and ring for another slave, or sometimes for Hadriana if she’d annoyed him. He’d sit in a chair at the end of his gigantic bed and watch, fondling himself slowly through his robes as he issued orders.  
  
You couldn’t fake anything; the magister would know.  
  
 _“Spread her open, Fenris. Make her come for me. There’s a good boy. My, my, look at her shake and whimper. Darling girl, I want to see you clean Fenris’ cock with your tongue. Slowly, slowly...look at me. Now take it all the way in your throat. You do want to be a magister someday, Hadriana? Yes? You want to have a comfortable life? Then take it all. Choke on it. Such a big boy. Look at that. See how you made him glisten.”_  
  
And so on.  
  
Those of us forced to participate were forever caught between the hatred we dared not show--of Danarius, of each other, of that room, of ourselves--and the physical desire we were punished if we did not put on full display. Always, at the end, we were required to feign blissful delirium and attend to Danarius as he struggled to his own finish.  
  
My mind is lost in these memories as my body anticipates and tends to Hawke’s needs, which, due to relative inexperience, are mercifully simple. She shudders and sighs beneath me in satisfaction, my cue to bring this event to a conclusion.  
  
I won’t deny it: this feels good. _She_ feels good. It is a new thing, to be alone with a lover of my own choosing, no master at the foot of the bed, commenting, judging. Only when Hawke captures me in a gentle, feather-light kiss, do I realize I’ve averted my eyes this whole time.  
  
That won’t do. I wrench my gaze to her face--I owe her that much. Her eyes are soft, the desperation and loathing I am accustomed to seeing in my partners completely absent. Not even resignation. Just...happiness, and a touch of wonder. It fuels me in strange ways, it shatters my control. I hear myself groan, my hips snapping furiously as I bury myself in her flesh, and she responds by trailing kisses over my throat, my shoulders, caressing my back. The lyrium in my skin burns, but the pain is drowned by my release.

Too quickly, the pleasure subsides. I roll to the side, to get out of Hawke’s way--surely she has no wish to suffer my weight any longer than she must--and as soon as my head touches the pillow, visions bloom behind my eyelids, bombarding me with unbidden images. Red hair shining in sunlight. A woman’s voice calling a name I cannot quite piece together. A brutal fight and an inexplicable sense of victory. My throat constricts, and when I open my eyes, there is Hawke propped up on one elbow, watching me.  
  
She should not see me like this. I divert her. “You’ll be wanting to get clean. Shall I fetch the washbasin?”  
  
She arches an eyebrow and gives a sleepy chuckle, flopping back against the bed. “Are you calling me dirty, Fenris?”  
  
“No, I--”  
  
“Let’s get some rest, shall we? I’ll get the basin later.”  
  
I am two men, now.  
  
The free man knows that if Hawke wants something fetched, she fetches it herself as a matter of principle. I have seen her discomfort when the dwarf Bodahn rushes to open a door or pour her wine.  
  
The slave, however, becomes wary. Too often, “No, Fenris, I shall get it myself,” has meant I’ve given offense. I have failed, and now the master must himself make up for my shortcomings, real or imaginary. Torture is certain, usually at the hands of Hadriana. But Hadriana lies dead. Short hours ago, I felt the meat of her heart between my fingers, her heartbeat weakening, then gone. How is it that she hounds me still?  
  
Hawke snores softly, but sleep does not come for me. I have never slept a full night in another’s bed. The slave expects to be dismissed. The free man is out of his depth. The fragments of memory that stirred so vividly in my mind are fading, and it is too much to bear. I am a broken creature, and Hawke deserves so much more than I can be. As quietly as I can, I slip from the bed, dressing quickly, feeling about on the dimmed floor for my sword and my belt. I should slink away directly, leave Kirkwall far behind, yet I linger, staring into the fire. A mistake.  
  
“Was it that bad?” she asks, blinking in the firelight.  
  
 _Yes._  
  
And also, not at all.  
  
What possible explanation an I give that she would understand? So I blame “memories,” apologize inadequately, and depart without looking back. Cold sweat and chills overtake me on the walk back to Danarius’ mansion. I retch in the bushes outside my door, then close and lock it behind me.  
  
I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and see the red scrap of fabric Hawke playfully tied onto my gauntlet, and a small Amell family crest I must have mistakenly taken in my scramble to dress. Why am I comforted to be here, in a room where my former master slept? I am a miserable worm, and she would do well to forget me.

* * *

 

Isabela spots me slouched at a table in the Hanged Man, grabs her mug, and slides into the chair across from me.  
  
“You and Hawke are long overdue for a good shouting match. Or a nice, angry shag,” she says cheerfully.  
  
“Hawke’s private life is none of your concern, and neither is mine,” I say without looking up, making clear that the two are separate.  
  
“On the contrary. This directly affects my sex life--if you two weren’t still hung up on each other, I’m sure I’d have gotten one or both of you into bed by now. It’s been months. Time to piss or get off the pot.”  
  
I glance up at her. “Hawke is not a pot.”  
  
“All the more reason not to treat her like one.”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I finish my ale and signal to the barman for another. Isabela does likewise, but indicates she’s on my tab. Typical.  
  
“You know what I think?” she asks, leaning her elbow on the table.  
  
I want desperately for this conversation to be over. Or never to have started. Yes, that would be preferable. “No.”  
  
She doesn’t even falter. “I think your problem isn’t that you don’t want to talk about it. It’s that you don’t know how to talk about it. It’s the strings, isn’t it? Hawke needs strings. And you don’t like obligations, because they feel like--”  
  
“I do not fear commitment.” _Where is that barman?_  
  
“ _Sod_ commitment. Who said anything about commitment? Strings, Fenris.” She looks around, to make sure no one is listening, and then leans forward. “I’ve never been a slave--”  
  
“No, you haven’t--” I interrupt.  
  
“--Let me finish, damn you!” she hisses. “I’ve never been a slave, not the way you were, but I was bought, once. And I was used as a showpiece, an ornament. It changed me. Now I always want to have at least three exit strategies planned for any situation. If it were me up there in Hightown with Hawke--it wouldn’t be, but if it were--it would be creepy, and Hawke would be totally oblivious. She grew up in Fereldan, where slavers are executed, not rewarded. For her, it’s not really real. Slavers are people she kills, and slaves are people she frees, and that’s as far as it goes. A former slave is just another person to her. She doesn’t know...”  
  
“She doesn’t know what? What is there for her to know?” The questions snap out of my mouth in a low, tight growl.  
  
“She doesn’t know about the head games you have to play with someone who owns you, and how those follow you even when you’re free, all right?” One corner of Isabela’s mouth quirks downward, and she studies her empty mug. “And she won’t know, unless you’re clear about it.”  
  
“You have it all figured out, do you?” I sneer, but there’s no force in it this time.  
  
She laughs. “As a matter of fact, I do. That’s why you don’t see me wearing a scrap of Hawke’s dressing gown around my wrist, yet unable to speak to her except to rant about mages. It’s a wonder she hasn’t lost interest in you.”  
  
I look up sharply. “She has no interest. She has not pursued the matter.”  
  
“Like you need another pursuer, idiot. Isn’t Danarius enough?” Isabela snorts, shaking her head. “Hawke may be clueless, but she has enough sense not to chase after you like a piece of lost property. You think she wants to drive you further away? Look, this isn’t my department, but she cares about you. As a _man_ , not an exotic curiosity. So work it out with Hawke, or stop wearing her family’s crest around--it’s pathetic, it strings her along, and strangers mistake you for a manservant. Or was that the look you were going for? ‘If found, please return to Amell estate, Hightown, Kirkwall?’”  
  
“You dare to--”  
  
“Food for thought, that’s all. Done with you now,” she singsongs, rising from her chair. “Going to get drunk!” With that, she swaggers off.  
  
The air in the Hanged Man is suddenly rancid and stifling. I slam coin down on the table and stalk to the door, only to have it flung open in my face by Hawke, who is coming in.  
  
“Hawke,” I offer by way of greeting. Her expression registers surprise, then concern, and a tiny fleck of hurt before she pulls her mouth into a smile. I give a curt nod and continue out into the night. Only after I’ve walked several minutes in the direction of Hightown do I realize I brushed my fingers over the Amell crest as I spoke her name.

* * *

Hawke’s mother, dead. Slaughtered, and fashioned into a ghastly construct by a crazed mage. I didn’t know Leandra well, though she was always polite enough to me. Striking the killing blow on that Quentin, I am fully satisfied for a fraction of a second until I turn to find Hawke grieving, and what is left of her mother struggling through her final moments. I have no words for this. I have no family, nothing to compare to this loss, and seeing the weight of it on Hawke...hurts.  
  
Bodahn finds me at home that night and begs me to pay a visit to Hawke. I do not know why he comes to me. Perhaps because I live close by. He insists, and I cannot refuse.  
  
I find her in her room, sitting on the side of her bed, staring into the fireplace.  
  
“Just...say something. Anything.” Tears catch in her eyelashes. I have never seen her cry, never seen her so utterly defeated. Small talk fails us, so we sit, listening to the crackle of the fire. A hiccuping sob bursts from her mouth, and she turns and leans her forehead on my shoulder. “I’m _sorry_...” she stammers.  
  
“Shh.” I pat her hesitantly on the back, not wanting to catch her robe on the sharp edges of my gauntlet. Her body curls inward, making her so small as she tries to silence herself. When I put my arm around her shoulders, the dam breaks and she weeps openly, keeping her hands balled in her lap, until she is exhausted.  
  
“I should sleep,” she croaks, after a long silence.  
  
“Here,” I say, helping her to a standing position. I make quick work of turning down her bed. “Sit.”  
  
She obeys, already nearly asleep. “Wait, shoes...”  
  
“Let me.” I slip them off, lift her feet and position them under the sheets, and draw the blankets over her. It’s a bedtime service I’ve performed countless times at the behest of my master, I realize. Only this time, I’ve done it of my own volition, as a gift.  
  
The woman settles on her side, knees pulled to her chest. I crouch by her bedside, waiting until sniffling is replaced by long, even breaths. She does not wake when I depart.

* * *

Hawke brings me a book. Of all things, a _book_. In the recent past, I might have detailed for her all the ways in which this is gift inappropriate: For example, I saw her forage it out of a bag of garbage in the Alienage. Also, it has apparently escaped her notice that I cannot read. I suppose I hid it well. Her eyebrows shoot skyward when I tell her.  
  
I admit it: That night in the Hanged Man, Isabela had the right of it. Hawke will forever be surprised and outraged when confronted with the realities of slavery. Fundamentally, she cannot process what it means to be a slave. _Well, good. May it ever be so._  
  
But what Hawke offers next is more precious than any book; she offers to teach me to read. I have wondered what it would be like to see signs on the street, books on a shelf, and know instantly what information they contain. It is a mundane skill, but to those who do not have it, it appears magical--in a good way, if that is possible. Literacy is a bit of freedom I never thought to have. Let Danarius come and try to take it from me. I dare him.  
  
Learning is a frustrating endeavor at first, and Hawke endures more than her share of my pacing and grumbling.  
  
“You’re just going to have to memorize that word, Fenris,” she remarks one evening as we work in my study, “It’s not pronounced the way it’s spelled.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t they spell it in a way that makes _sense_?!” It occurs to me that I’m shouting, so I lower my voice. “And why can’t I remember it after the first time you tell me, and why do you bother with this when I cannot repay you?”  
  
She huffs out a half-laugh and pushes her chair back from the table, stretching her long legs out in front of her and letting her arms dangle. “Which of those questions do you want me to answer first?”  
  
“I don’t know. All of them.”  
  
She cocks her head to the side, then counts off the answers on her fingers. “One: The word that has you so up in arms used to be pronounced the way it’s spelled. People got lazy in their pronunciation, but not in their spelling. Thus the difference. Two: You can’t remember every single thing all in one go. It will take time and practice, even for you. Three: I’m not teaching you to read because I want repayment. I’m teaching you to read because everyone ought to know how to read. That, and I’m a glutton for punishment who enjoys spending time with the most exasperating, impatient person ever to walk Thedas.”  
  
“Ah.” Something about her tone drains my anger away. Or it could be the inexplicable urge I feel to go to her and kiss the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “I shall try to be less impatient in the future.”  
  
Hawke stares at the ceiling, then glances at me. “But you make no guarantees on the ‘exasperating’ bit.”  
  
I cough. “No.”  
  
“Fair enough,” she chuckles, gathering her feet under her and standing. “I’m headed down to the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace. Care to come along?”  
  
“I have an appointment with Donnic. Diamondback.”  
  
“Enjoy, then. You know where to find me when you want another exercise in deciphering irregularly spelled words.” She waves and shows herself out, as is her custom.  
  
 _And if I want an exercise in something else entirely, Hawke, what then?_

* * *

I do not know what I expected after Danarius fell dead on the Hanged Man’s blood-slick floor. I have what I wanted; no one can now claim me as property. Yet I feel little difference. If anything, I feel more alone for the loss of Varania, the sister I barely remember, and who led Danarius to me.  
  
Hawke’s voice echos in my mind: _I am here, Fenris_.  
  
Boots crunch on broken stair tiles. She _is_ here, in my room, in this house I do not own. I ramble at her, pouring out my scattered thoughts, stitching a new direction for my life from frail, leftover scraps.  
  
“Wherever it leads, I hope it means we’ll stay together.” Careful words, framing her own question. She leans slightly forward, awaiting my answer.  
  
I had not thought to have this opportunity again. “That is my hope as well.”  
  
My fingers thread through her hair. Her body is warm, pliant in my arms as she kisses me softly, urgently. This time she doesn’t grab at my shoulders or push me against any wall. She uses the backs of her fingers to stroke my face, avoiding contact with my tattoos. I cannot help but smile against her lips.  
  
“It’s all right,” I tell her, taking one of her hands and turning it over, pressing her palm to my cheek.  
  
“I just...” She looks toward the window, out into the darkening sky.  
  
“Hawke,” I insist.  
  
She turns back to me and swallows, her eyes focusing on my shoulder, her own doubts and desires written on the surface of her usually confident face. “ _Maker_ , I want to be good to you. Not like last time. I was so clumsy.”  
  
“You have always been good to me. Better than I deserved.”  
  
A smile creeps onto her lips, and she kisses me again. Her fingers begin to work at the buckles of my armor.  
  
In dark, under blankets, we cling to each other, whispering endearments and encouragement. Her leg hooks around the back of mine as I kiss her mouth, the skin behind her round ears, the column of her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder. An intake of breath, then a sigh as I suckle gently at her nipples, tending to one, then the other, until her hips buck beneath me from want. She whimpers almost inaudibly when I lean back up to taste her mouth again. Her fingertips work at my shoulders and back, and her back arches when I idly swipe my knuckle through the damp curls between her legs, circling the little bud there.  
  
One of her hands encircles my length, smoothing a thumb over the glassy drop leaking from its tip, and the other gently guides me forward until I nudge against her entrance. My heart hammers. My blood hums in my veins. I sink into her, parting her flesh around me, until I am hilted, surrounded so intimately that it steals my breath. We reacquaint our bodies slowly, rolling our hips, perfecting the angles.  
  
Kirkwall does not exist. Templars and mages do not exist. Danarius, Hadriana, and Varania--never existed at all.  
  
 _Only_ this. Only _us_.  
  
I tease pleasure out of Hawke with my finger, making her quake and thrash against me. When she comes, she clutches at my backside and pierces the silence with a soft cry, wrapping herself around me. The sound of her keening and panting brings me to the brink, holds me there...and then I am falling, spilling into my lover, shivering with raw pleasure.  
  
The memories come, of course, but this time we are both prepared. I rest my head on Hawke’s breast while my mind whirls, tossing up blurred images, muffled sounds, long forgotten scents. She strokes my hair, tucking it behind my ear.  
  
After, she asks, “Shall I stay?”  
  
“Please. Yes.”  
  
I startle awake four times that night, unused to sharing a bed as I am. Four times, Hawke soothes me back to slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here on the Dragon Age Kink Meme back in 2011: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/3197.html?thread=6178685#t6178685.


End file.
